Conversations With an Elf
by vrhame211
Summary: A Christmas one0shot fluff based on the prompt, "I'm dressed like an elf, because of my job. You're drunk and think I really know Santa."


_This was not the holiday employment I had in mind_ , you think to yourself, the faint sound of jingling bells coming from the curled tips of your elf shoes.

Classes were done for the semester, and you could use some income so when your best friend offered you a job for the holidays at the mall she worked, you jumped at the opportunity. You figured it would be wrapping gifts with the elderly ladies of the knitting club or, at worst, manning the customer service desk and getting yelled at all day. You weren't prepared for the festive red, white and green outfit she presented you with on your first day.

As one of Santa's elves, your job was to bring the kid to Santa and send them on their way with a cheap coloring book and a candy cane when they were done. After only one day of crying kids and Christmas themed pick up lines from skeevy fathers, you longed for the not so glamorous world of customer service.

It had been two weeks on the job, and you had sunk into a routine. Fake smile your way through your shift then head to the small bar next to the mall to decompress and cross another day off your countdown calendar you kept in your purse for when this job would end.

Today had been an exceptionally excruciating one. Five screaming kids, four scared toddlers, three horny dads, two peeing babies and you left the normal clothes you change into after work at home.

So, here you sit with your whiskey sour, perched on a bar stool in a small dive bar, dressed as an elf.

You had been preoccupied making your weekly grocery list and doodling in your small notebook that you didn't notice the man that sat three stools down from you.

"I didn't think elves were allowed to drink."

"Pardon?"

"I said, I didn't elves could drink," He repeated a little louder with the same low, fluid voice and slight drunken slur.

"Well, I'm off duty. Therefore, this elf can," You answer without bothering to look up from your writing.

"I'm pretty sure when you work for the big man in red, you are never off duty," He admonishes you.

 _Oh for Christ sakes, gimme a break._ You think to yourself as you finally raise your head and glance at the source of the voice. The sour look on your face is turning to one of a pleasant surprise as your eyes lock with the hazel ones that belong to the handsome man that has been addressing you.

"I got permission; I promised him I wouldn't drink and toboggan," you say as you pick up your drink. You give the glass a slight tip of acknowledgment in his direction and take a sip, the sweet and sour concoction burning your throat on the way down.

"Tobbagan," He repeats after you with a little laugh, "I always liked that word. Tobbagan," He enunciates and downs the rest of the drink in front of him.

"Not a fan of sledding?"

"Ech," He says, nose wrinkling with a look of disgust. "Just listen to it, 'sledding.' It sounds prissy."

"Prissy. I'll remember that" You nod amusingly to yourself. You finish your drink and set your empty glass on the edge of the bar.

"Hey, you mind if I-?" He says, motioning to the stool next to you. You pause for a second. He's cute, and he's amusing, why the hell not? You think to yourself before you give him an affirmative nod. He slides over and gently slinks down on the stool next to you. He puts his empty glass next to yours and motions to the bartender for a refill on both of them.

"No, no, you don't have to do that. I really should get going anyway." You say, stowing your notebook away in your purse.

"C'mon, I insist. It's a busy time for you guys; it's the least I could do for one of Santa's helpers." His warm hazel eyes win you over as you stow your purse back under your bar stool and taking your fresh drink in hand, giving his a clink of appreciation before saying 'thank you' and taking a sip.

"So do you get to see the big guy a lot?" He asks.

"Santa?"

"Yeah."

"I see him every day," you answer, keeping your tone pleasant despite thinking about the horrible excuse for a Santa that the mall has this year, Rick that smelled like pickles and house paint.

"You do?" He questioned, his eyes lighting up underneath the thin sheen from the booze. "Ya think maybe you could ask him for a favor for me?"

You stare at him skeptically as you set your drink down.

"Aren't you a little old to be asking Santa for presents?" You question him.

"Nah, it's not for me," he says, reaching into his back pocket, dropping it on the bar between the two of you. He flips it open to his license. Across from it in a little plastic sleeve, is a picture of him and a little girl perched on his shoulders. From the looks of the photo, she couldn't have been more than four years old. A small blonde with a smile so cute and so big it would make your heart burst.

"This is my niece, Cassie. She's a real sweetie." He says, his voice warm with love and pride.

"She's adorable," you tell him.

"Isn't she? You can tell she got her looks from her mother. If she got them from my brother, she'd have a square head, weird feet, and a little wang," He says, causing you to choke on your drink a little in surprise.

"Well, you know, if she had one," He adds, taking a sip of his own drink in front of him.

"Anyway, she wants this thing. It's like this animal excavation kit thing where you get these blocks, and you chip away at it 'til you get these animal skeletons?" He says, gesturing with his arms while he tries to explain it to you. The liquor in his system causing the word 'skeletons' to sound like 'scallions.' As he slips his wallet back into his pocket, you hope that someone was picking him up or he was taking a cab. Him driving is not an option.

"That does sound pretty cool," You tell him.

"Wish I'd gotten something like that when I was a kid. We weren't big on presents. Me and Nathan, that's my brother, the one with the little-" gesturing towards the crotch of his pants.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," You cut him off, trying to keep him from finding another colorful word to use to describe his brother's genitalia and also trying not to look down where he was pointing. You knew nothing good ever came from looking when a handsome drunk man was pointing at his crotch.

"Yeah. Nathan and I were dealt a rough hand, so it was just me and him growing up. We didn't have any money. Sometimes we didn't even have a roof over our heads, but I made sure he got something at Christmas. Cause he's my little brother, you know what I mean?" He asks.

You nod with a warm smile.

"Cassie's a good kid. I couldn't afford to get Nathan the cool stuff that he wanted when we were kids. I wanna make sure that Cassie gets the cool stuff she wants. You know what I mean?"

"I get you," You answer, wondering how much more of this sweet, inebriated guy tugging on your heartstrings you could take.

"If anyone can make sure this kid gets what she wants, it's Santa Claus. You think you could ask him for me?"

"Let me talk to him, and we'll see what we can do," You answer, a stock response you had heard Fake Santa Rick say to children for the last two weeks.

"You're a good elf, Santa should give you a raise," He decrees.

"I think he should too!" You say giggling in agreement.

"You guys should get warmer uniforms too. I could never understand that about you elves. You aren't cold in those tights? Or itchy?"

"Surprisingly, it's more comfortable than you think," you tell him. Looking downright enlightened, he reaches out and rubs the fabric of the shirt on your upper arm, the sensation causing him to nod impressively.

"Better than I thought," He says. The two of you sharing a little laugh over your outfit, the feel of his strong hands and the liquor lubricating your thoughts zaps your willpower and gives you ideas of possibly taking him home with you. It had been a while, and this handsome guy is giving you the warm and tinglies down to the bells on your toes wasn't a bad choice.

The door on those thoughts closed as he looked toward the entrance to the bar. An older man that just walked in is motioning him to get a move on.

"That's my ride. Time to go. Unless you think Santa would be willing to give me a life home in the sleigh?" He asks honestly.

Starting to believe that this guy really thinks your an elf, and your willpower returning, you tell him nicely, "Santa only delivers toys, he's not a taxi service."

"Fair enough. You will ask him for that thing, right? For Cassie? Cause she's my little buddy, my princess. You know what I mean?" He asks, putting on his leather jacket.

"I know what you mean," The repetitiveness of this phrase makes you smile, "And I will ask him, I promise."

He drains the last of his drink and puts his hand on your shoulder. Leaning down close, he whispers into your ear, "You're a wonderful elf, sweetheart," giving you a wet kiss on the cheek. A blush spreads across your face and down your neck. The scent of the whiskey breath, cologne and cigarettes waft up your nose.

He zips up his coat and heads towards the door to meet the older man waiting for him.

"And you're a good man, Sam Drake!" You call after him.

He stops abruptly, turning back to look at you with eyes wide with surprise.

"How did you know my name?" He asks, his voice full of wonder, like that of a child.

"I'm an elf, we're magic!" You tell him coyly. Telling him you saw his name on his driver's license just wouldn't have the same effect.

He gives you one last smile, the sparkle in his warm hazel eyes making the breath catch in your throat as he turns and heads out the door into the cold night.

You pull out your phone. With a quick search on Amazon, you find the toy that Sam was talking about, the gleam in his eyes and the gooey feelings that they induced in you cause you to hit the buy button. Typing Sam's address from his license into the shipping info and hoping that it is right, you add a note to go in the package. 'For Cassie, for being on the nice list. For Sam, for also being on the nice list. -Santa' You sign the note, 'An elf' and, still brimming with some liquid courage, include your phone number with it.

You put your phone back in your purse and pull your shopping list out again. You add a few items to it, all the while hoping you are on the nice list yourself this year, and high enough on it to get a phone call from Sam.


End file.
